Biological Warfare
by jsupler
Summary: Post-Modern Warfare 2. Soap and Price discover that a terrorist is planning to unleash a biological attack on America. Meanwhile, Roach and Ghost have survived Shepherd's betrayal, but Task Force 141 must be reunited if they're to stop the attack from happening.
1. The Rising Dead

**'The Rising Dead'  
Day 1 - 16:15:58  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Georgian-Russian Border**

Gary "Roach" Sanderson mustered all of his willpower to summon the strength necessary to roll himself out of the fire, wheezing and pained screams following suit as the flames burned through his clothes and skin. As he rolled to safety, the vibrations of the blades of Shepherd's departing helicopter continued to beat in the heated air, barely perceptible through the pulsing of blood in Roach's ears. Somewhere in the chaos were the static-soaked voices of Captain Price and Captain MacTavish, screaming at him from the other side of the radio, warning him about Shepherd, but the frantic advice fell on deaf ears. Roach was having a hard enough time trying not to think about his burning flesh and the bullet in his stomach. Before he could even think about responding to the captains' call, Roach rolled over his radio and smashed it trying to extinguish the flames that were eating at him. At long last, the burning sensation that had engulfed him became nonexistent, replaced by a sudden, temporary lull of numbness that, to Roach, felt like the uniting of his soul, body, and mind. Burned, clumsy fingers reached for a smoke grenade clipped to his belt and popped it into the pit where Ghost was still burning alive.

The grenade exploded and the baking soda content within dispersed and coalesced into a large cloud of thick white smoke, a solid fog that immediately extinguished the blazing orange flames. Roach, still in pain but making an attempt to ignore it, began an effortful crawl back to the pit to evaluate the extent of the damage. His friend Ghost was lying there, his clothes emitting a sickening aura of fresh smoke and another smell that Roach could only guess was the smell of burnt flesh. Roach pulled his comrade out of the pit with a near-Herculean effort and checked to see if he was breathing and if there was a heartbeat underneath his chest. To Roach's growing horror, he found neither.

The revolver bullet Shepherd had put into Ghost's collarbone was a bloody tunnel into his chest, but Roach refused to believe that Ghost was gone. No, Roach was sure Ghost was still alive. When they were both thrown into the pit, he could've sworn he saw his friend's eyes - still sparked with that glint of life - through those sunglasses he was always so fond of. In case Price and MacTavish suffered the brunt of Shepherd's betrayal, Roach and Ghost _had_ to survive in order to set things right.

_CPR_. Roach pushed against his Ghost's chest five times, his own heart racing from the anxiety. He then removed Ghost's mask and breathed a lungful of air into him. He repeated this, and after two times hope was beginning to look dim. He tried not to think about Ghost actually fulfilling his namesake. Four hits to the chest, trying to get Ghost's heart moving, trying to keep his blood flowing through his veins. On the fifth hit...

Ghost gasped and lunged forward sharply, then fell back again onto the grass, panting heavily through strained wheezes and chokes. Roach breathed a palpable sigh of relief as he moved in to check how Ghost had fared through the ordeal.

"Ghost, are you alright?" Roach asked, his throat dry from the heat of the fire. Suddenly he realized that he was looking at Ghost's face and not the mask he had grown used to talking to. Ghost's true face seemed vaguely familiar, but Roach couldn't quite place where he had seen it before despite the brief sense of déjà vu it spawned.

Ghost still kept panting, then groaned when he tried sitting up again. Roach gently put a hand on his shoulder and helped him up. Ghost clutched the top of his chest and coughed, "Been better, Roach. Is there -" He tightened his grip on his chest. "Ah, hell...is there...a way to call for help?"

"My radio's FUBAR. Is yours still working?"

Ghost reached into the clip on his waist and withdrew his radio. "See if it does," he urged, outstretching his hand. He coughed, and a stream of blood sprayed from between his teeth. The stark contrast of the red blood against the green grass was almost terrifying.

Roach snatched the radio, troubled, and slapped the side of it a couple times because at first it didn't appear to be working. "Hello, hello! Price, MacTavish, are you there, please copy!" he spoke into it.

Faintly, on the other end, the both of them could hear a voice. They couldn't understand the words, but it sounded like Captain Price. Then Roach's heart sank when he heard the next voice: the voice of Vladimir Makarov.

Makarov: the man responsible for this whole mess. He massacred everyone inside a Russian airport, with an undercover agent helping him, and he betrayed this American agent and put Russia at war with America. He was the sole reason all of this had happened. Everything that had transpired was entirely _his_ fault.

Roach and Ghost exchanged surprised looks, then Roach screamed into the radio. "Captain Price, we are alive, I repeat, we are okay! We survived Shepherd's attack, please respond!" Price kept talking for a few seconds, then static enveloped the sound of the already-faint transmission and Roach switched off the radio. He put it down and turned his attention to his injured friend.

"Here, let me see that," Roach said. He gingerly spread apart Ghost's vest to reveal a bullet hole _right above_ where his heart was. "Lucky for you, it doesn't look like it hit anything vital, but it may have..."

Ghost coughed up more blood. "...lodged itself in an airway. Explains my trouble breathing right." He wheezed miserably again, going into a severe coughing fit.

"Christ, we need to get you help," Roach said worriedly. He picked Ghost up and put him on his shoulders. The words _bullet_ and _trachea _were beginning to spiral around in his mind now uncontrollably.

"It's useless, Roach," Ghost said weakly. "Just leave me for chrissakes. Find the Captains. We're in the middle of Russia, with no - " he coughed more " – no way of calling for help, no local hospital..."

"Shut the fuck up," Roach scolded in a voice that sounded quite alien to even himself. "Chances are, the captains might die out there. If they do, Shepherd will make up his own damn story about how he single-handedly killed the traitors of his country or whatever the hell he decides to do. I am _not_ going to leave you behind to die because of what that son-of-a-bitch did."

Ghost looked at the man who was going to risk everything to save his life and fell unconscious. That's when Roach recognized Ghost's face. The third man of the 22nd SAS Regiment – Gaz.

Captain MacTavish had shown him a picture of the regiment and explained how both Price and Gaz had been killed in their confrontation with Imran Zakhaev about five years earlier after they'd stopped a nuclear missile launch. Supposedly, he'd been shot. But amazingly, Price had survived, and the same phenomenon appeared to have occurred with Gaz...

Roach ignored the sudden revelation, the pain from his burns, and the bullet in the side of his own stomach and trudged along the grass, his comrade on his shoulders, in search of someone who would be willing to help them.


	2. Wanted

**'Wanted'  
Day 3 - 07:01:34  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Somewhere in Afghanistan**

Captain John Price, in a state of such uproar that Nikolai's shelter was quite literally shaking, slammed his fist onto the table with a startling _thwack_. "Makarov may still be out there and even though Shepherd is gone, that doesn't mean that the rest of America's bloody military ain't gonna go after 'im."

"Soap" MacTavish was sitting on the other side of the table, lost in thought as he used a laptop-like console to browse through top-secret government archives, most notably the ones that were a week old. Yesterday, he had pulled a knife out of his chest and chucked it at Shepherd as he was beating Price within an inch or two of his life, resulting in a clean stab right through the eye – instant death. Nikolai, a friend of theirs who had supplied them with intel on the cargo ship operation just five years ago, came to their aid and herded them into an underground fallout shelter had had been busy building. It was well hidden and since Afghanistan was Price and Soap's last known location – and more importantly, since they had high notoriety on the military's most wanted list – they welcomed the convenient opportunity to hide away.

"Shepherd's blank check went away when he did," Soap noted, unconsciously putting a hand on the bandages covering his knife wound. "America's military doesn't have the resources now. Says here an EMP went off over there and all hell broke loose - they've got a nation in shock to deal with right now. You know how those Americans are."

"You're right, but say someone comes and replaces Shepherd," Price speculated, "and say that _he's_ one to follow in his footsteps."

Soap shivered at the thought. Shepherd had betrayed them in the end so he and his Shadow Organization could do everything absolutely possible to kill Makarov - including sacrificing innocent lives in the process. Ghost and Roach, the other two members of Task Force 141, were killed right on the other end of Soap's radio just two days earlier. If he and Price had warned them a minute sooner...

"What's done is done," Price said, almost as if he was reading Soap's thoughts and breaking him out of his depressed reverie. "There was nothing any of us could do. We were thousands of miles away from each other."

"Remember Gaz?" Soap asked.

Price seemed surprised. How could he _not _remember Gaz, their comrade from the 22nd SAS Regiment half a decade earlier, killed in their standoff with Zakhaev on the bridge? Nevertheless, he nodded. A solemn "Yeah" was his answer.

"Ghost reminds me of him. A lot."

"And Roach?"

Soap paused for a moment, mulling it over. "He reminds me of myself. When I was just a sergeant."

Price contemplated this. Five years earlier, he led Soap and Gaz on a wild-goose chase across the continent, ultimately rescuing America from an unexpected nuclear attack. He could have sworn they had won this war days ago, but all that time imprisoned in the gulag really took its toll on him. Time seemed irrelevant now, and to such an extreme point Price sometimes questioned the reality of it all – him being where he was now. There was such a juxtaposition involved with the gulag and his freedom that it was a psychological falling out to experience such a change so rapidly.

"That audio recording you sent out on the database," Soap started. "Pretty much everyone's listened to it by now. Maybe a tad bit cryptic in your message, but some of them understand."

"How can you tell?" Price walked around the table to where Soap was sitting and observed the screen of the console.

"There's a substantial decrease of our standing on the Most Wanted list," Soap explained. "Just yesterday, we were on the very top. Right up there." He pointed to the top of the list, where there was a picture of Vladimir Makarov, followed by his known information. "If _he's_ the Most Wanted man in the world at the moment, he really must be still alive."

"Bollocks," Price sighed. "We have to stay in hiding until the heat dies down, and we don't get knocked off the list _enough_. Couldn't we have been knocked down to a number that's not on the page when you first open it up?"

"They have a reason to keep us there, if you think about it," Soap told him. "We murdered a general and violated strict military protocol. The basic elements of it, yes, but that's all they need."

"There's a difference between murder and killing, Soap," Price reminded him before pausing for thought. "I'm impressed. That little stab hasn't worn you down one stinkin' bit."

Soap smiled in amusement. Just then, the archives on screen abruptly turned into a confusing mosaic of binary numbers, which then vanished and the screen went dark.

"Uh, what just happened?" Price inquired.

"I don't know...a surge in the system, maybe?" Soap suggested.

The screen booted back up, and where the archives were was now a single audio file with a Play button icon right next to it. The isolation of the file in the middle of the empty screen was quite ominous, like the glow of a dying lightbulb in a dark room.

"More like a ghost in the machine. Someone's hacking the database," Price said. "That's quite impressive. You know how much firewalls and shite they put into those computers?"

"Yeah, but..." Soap started to say, but his voice trailed off. Usually, whenever someone would upload a file to the database, it would display who it was from and where they were at the time of the upload. There was no information like that on the screen now. Just the file and the Play button.

"Something isn't right with this," Soap said, a hint of caution in his voice. Curiously, he clicked on the Play button.

_"You Americans may have think you've had enough," _a sinister voice drawled, a line of audio waves accompanying it, _"but we the motherland will not forgive you in your part in the Zakhaev International Airport incident. There is much more - this is just the beginning. Now, you will finally understand why history is written by the victors._" Then the transmission cut off.

"A terrorist threat," said Soap. "_Very_ serious."

"Did you try tracking who sent it?" Price asked.

"I tried, there's nothing there. Whoever issued this knows their way around a computer better than I do."

"Hmm...Russian accent." Price stroked his beard, thinking intently. "I've got the feeling that there's something bigger behind this. You know, like it's not the unreal, hypocritical terrorist threat - it's the_ real_ one that actually comes through in the end?"

"Same feeling here, Captain," Soap answered. His fingers moved for the keyboard. "We might have been the first ones to get that message. Do you want me to forward it?"

"No, no," Price said, gesturing for Soap to take his hands away from the keyboard. "Not yet. We should find the extent of how deep this rabbit hole goes before sending out what might be a false alarm. Besides, if you forward that then we'll have the military breakin' into the place. Take that threat off the network. We'll look into this one ourselves. Then those pigs will have to knock us off the list."

"Or at least be knocked down to a number that's not on the page when we first open it up," Soap suggested as he hacked the database, removed the audio file, and closed the console.


	3. Confession

******'Confession'  
Day 1 - 20:37:44  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Eastern Azerbaijan**

Ghost was fingering the hole in his collarbone, doing his best not to scream, as Roach drove their stolen truck southeast - towards Soap and Price's location. Roach was hoping that along the way to Afghanistan, they could find a hospital or someone who could help Ghost, but over a hundred miles had gone by and there had been no luck.

Just hours ago, Roach and Ghost had made it back to Makarov's hideout and found a truck around the back, broke into it, and found that it had enough gas to make a good journey southeastward. Ghost was not recovering well, yet he persisted in his futile attempts to remove the bullet by hand. Roach kept telling him to lay off of it, but Ghost's injuries were obviously screwing with his behavior.

Roach picked up Ghost's radio and turned it on. "Captain Price, Captain MacTavish, do you copy?" Static buzzed and Roach slammed the radio down on the truck's dashboard. "Dammit!"

In a raspy voice, Ghost said, "Just forget about them for now. They'll be fine...they always are."

"And I know how you know that," Roach said simply. He was referring to how Ghost - Gaz - survived along with Captain Price.

Ghost's eyes widened. "What...what do you mean?"

Roach hesitated, then pushed down on the gas pedal harder to make the piece of junk go faster. "You're Gaz. You were in the 22nd SAS Regiment."

Ghost stopped trying to fish the bullet out of his body. He coughed into his hand, then said "How did you...find out?"

"Pictures are worth a thousand words, Ghost." Roach was indifferent about it. The fact that Gaz had survived a shot to the head was disturbingly surreal.

"I wasn't - I...I was not killed that day, Roach." He pulled down part of his shirt over the back of his shoulder blade, and there was a bullet hole scar there. "Zakhaev...missed, lucky for me. Bloody bastard was losin' it."

Roach swallowed. "Do the captains know?"

Ghost shook his head. "No, they don't. Didn't want 'em to. That's...that's what the mask was for." He went into another coughing fit. "Which _you_ made me leave behind, thanks."

Roach ignored that last statement because CPR would have been impossible with Ghost's skull mask on and began to focus on the road more. He wanted so desperately for there to be a big trauma center right in the middle of the Russian prairie, but it was so deserted and uninhabited at the moment. It wasn't long before the awkward silence between the two comrades became unbearable to leave alone, but Roach figured that it was better that Ghost didn't talk for a while. Thoughts began presenting themselves in Roach's head as if they were all waiting in line to be noticed.

The bullet was stuck in Ghost's airway, not his throat, so he couldn't swallow it down or use the Heimlich maneuver.

Roach would take his chances with a small medical clinic if they found that first instead of a regular hospital.

Shepherd was going to kill Soap and Price if his men didn't kill them first.

They were driving through some mountains.

"Dammit," Roach swore in frustration. "Is there going to be a fucking hospital around the corner or what?"

They drove in silence for a few more hours, pushing the limits of the truck. Ghost had fallen asleep in his seat while Roach struggled to stay awake.

Just then, their truck turned the next corner and Roach's jaw dropped at the sight. There was huge city that looked to be maybe ten miles away. If there was a city, that meant people. And people meant help. And help meant...

"What is that?" Ghost whispered, now awake.

"I think it's Baku, in Azerbaijan," Roach replied. "That's what it looks like, anyway. We ain't in Russia anymore."

"And we weren't in Kansas to begin with." Ghost smiled. "But if that's..." he coughed hoarsely, "...Baku, that mean's we have to go down south around the Caspian Sea if we're to get to Afghan."

"You're right," Roach agreed. "But first I'm gonna get you to a hospital. Get that stupid bullet outta ya."

With that, Roach went full throttle on the truck, anxious to waste that final gallon of gas in order to save his friend before that bullet killed him.


	4. Theory

**'Theory'  
Day 3 - 07:45:21  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Somewhere in Afghanistan**

Soap, Price, and Nikolai sat around the table speculating about the attack while at the same time Soap tried to triangulate the signal and discover the whereabouts of the transmission. Because of all the horrific events that had occurred, the trio was ready to imagine any kind of scenario this mystery terrorist would induce - "even a zombie virus" Nikolai had joked, to which Price had responded, "Well, now, let's not jump to conclusions, shall we?"

"The Russians already played the nuclear bomb card," stated Soap, his fingers dancing on the keyboard, "and the EMP as well. What could this man have in store for America?"

"A hydrogen bomb in New York City, maybe," Price suggested. "New York City is the pride of America, according to some. A hydrogen bomb would glass the entire city -" Price snapped his fingers " - just like that."

"America and Russia aren't going to exchange bombs, my friend," Nikolai interjected, "unless America plans on going through with the Moscow attack in the end."

"They may be still thinking about it," Soap said. "What if they pull a Hiroshima on Russia?"

"They'd be mortal enemies," Price sighed. Years back, Price had traveled with his captain through a town that had been hit with an atomic bomb, and the radioactive town was a nightmare for them that still lingered in his memories. If only that happened to Russia..."Now, what else could happen?"

"Well, I did some research way back when, and I came across something called Sarin - it's a highly dangerous biological agent," Soap said informatively, still trying to locate the signal. The transmission was far to the north - somewhere in Russia, of course.

Price leaned back in his chair. "Sarin?"

"It's this chemical that can infect people. Once contracted, the victim loses control of body functions and then starts to - " Soap paused, seemingly embarrassed by his next choice of words. " - well, er...throw up, shit, and piss uncontrollably."

"That's disgusting," Nikolai expressed in his thick accent. He crossed his arms.

"Not only that, but in the end, the victim goes into a coma and suffocates in their uncontrollable spasms. It's about five hundred times more toxic than cyanide, that thing they put into capsules if people need to kill themselves quickly."

"So you're suggesting biological warfare," Price concluded, folding his hands on the table.

Soap nodded. "It's possible. But getting your hands on Sarin ain't exactly what you'd call easy. It was banned by the U.N. sometime ago, if I remember correctly." The laptop beeped as Soap's search for the signal completed. "Got it."

"Where is the signal originating from?" Price inquired, now leaning forward in his seat alongside Nikolai.

"Um...you're not going to like this," Soap said with uncertainty.

"Try us," Nikolai insisted.

"Moscow." There was a moment of silence.

"Nikolai, thanks for your help, but we are leaving," Price said, getting up. "Soap, let's go."

"You're not actually thinking about going to Moscow and nabbing the guy are you?" Soap asked incredulously. "We could just call in an attack on Moscow from here."

"We're on a wanted list, remember? Those pricks aren't going to give a damn about what we say right now. This is in our hands now."

Nikolai turned his attention to Soap. "It's alright, I'm still an ally if you two get into another sticky situation. You know where I am."

Soap looked at Nikolai, then to Price, then said, "Let's go."


	5. The Caduceus

******'The Caduceus'  
Day 1 - 21:14:00  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Baku, Azerbaijan**

Roach helped Ghost out of the truck, which they had carelessly parked at the front of the doors as if the hospital itself were a Las Vegas casino, and then walked inside.

Upon their entrance, people looked up in surprise and shock - some fear, too. They began mumbling in some language that neither of the comrades were fluent in, so Roach helped Ghost to the front desk. A rather tan and skinny woman with small glasses looked up at them and exclaimed something in their Azerbaijan language.

"Does anyone hear speak any bloody English?" asked Roach impatiently. He turned to glance at the bullet wound in Ghost's chest, and the blood that had dried around the hole made it look even worse. Who knows, maybe it was. Ghost was still breathing awkwardly, each breath a struggling, demanding effort, but he continued breathing nonetheless.

"I speak English, although not very well," the woman said. "What is the matter with him?"

"My friend here has a gunshot wound to the collarbone," Roach explained. "He's having a hard time breathing and he needs assistance _now!_"

The woman, who they could now see her name tag that was labeled "Sharp," nodded and came around the desk. "I will take it from here," she said in a terrifyingly calm voice. She ushered Ghost down the next hall, people still gluing their eyes all over them. Ghost took one last look back before the doors swung shut.

Roach stood there, his feet bolted to the floor, frozen. He didn't know if he should be excited or afraid. He was beginning to come up with a fantasy, something that happened to him when he was under great stress. The woman was strangely calm, so what if she was planning on just putting Ghost out of his misery? Then when she and the other doctors finished, they'd go after _him_.

_Fuck, Roach! Shut up!_ Roach thought to himself. _Ghost'll be fine._

The people in the lobby began to take their attention off of him and back to their newspapers, some of which were showing pictures of the Zakhaev International Airport massacre and the aftermath of the EMP that went off earlier.

Once Roach's heart rate had settled down into a more relaxed state, he walked over to the men's restroom, taking off his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets.

He was alone in the restroom, so he went over to the sink and splashed a generous amount of water on his face. Earlier that day, he and Ghost - along with a few other comrades who had gotten killed in action along the way - defended Makarov's hideout while important data was being transferred to the DSM that was now in Shepherd's possession. The gunfire and explosions had grimed up Roach's face quite a bit.

It was a bullet interfering with Ghost's airway. Was that a difficult procedure? It wasn't like they were going to remove a bullet near his heart or brain or anything. But still...

He exited the restroom and found that Ms. Sharp had just walked out from the doors and gotten back to the desk. Roach walked over to it, stamping his feet on the floor with each step, and planted his hands on the counter.

Almost as if Ms. Sharp knew what he was going to ask, she said, "I transferred your friend to the emergency room as fast as I could. They are going to run an X-ray to see the damage, then they will operate on him."

Roach nodded, then walked back over to the waiting area and seated himself in one of the tiny chairs lining the wall, all underneath a lit-up banner of a caduceus.

He imagined Ghost on the operating table, the doctors slicing a cut over his chest and carefully removing the bullet from his airway while another doctor held the incision open with a pair of bloody clamps.

As Roach envisioned the surgery that either was happening or was about to, the day's endeavors finally caught up to him and sleep enveloped the man in a matter of minutes.


	6. First Blood

**'First Blood'  
Day 3 - 11:07:24  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Murgab River, Turkmenistan**

Nikolai's Jeep Wrangler held up well as Soap and Price drove alongside the Murgab River north towards Moscow.

"Moscow's a big city, Captain," Soap noted as they kept driving. "The terrorist could be anywhere in those stupid-looking buildings." The air had been somewhat tense between them for some reason, and Price was being unusually quiet, save for his answers to some of Soap's questions. But there was one question that Price didn't seem to want to answer.

How was he alive?

After Soap had gunned down Zakhaev, Price had apparently died. Obviously, he wasn't. He was sitting in the driver's seat, flesh and blood, and didn't seem fazed at all. It had been five years since they had last seen each other, yet the reunion was bittersweet considering that Price was keeping secrets. Still though, the mission at hand could be compromised if anything happened between the two friends, so Soap didn't ask again.

"I'm sure we'll come up with something," Price responded. "Maybe we can see if there's a shipment of nuclear weapons or that Sarin derivative you theorized about and see if there's a clue to this man's whereabouts."

Soap nodded, then looked back at the road. To his left was the green valley that the Murgab River snaked through, and this valley was surrounded by low brown mountains. His eyes caught sight of the rearview mirror, where there was something that shouldn't have been there...

"Captain!" Soap exclaimed. "Step on it!"

Price had only enough time to look behind him before the man standing on top of the pursuing truck unleashed an RPG, which sailed through the space between the two vehicles before exploding right underneath the Jeep's back bumper. The Jeep's back end lifted up and the car flipped over, with Price and Soap giving quick shrieks of surprise.

"Soap, are you alright?" Price asked, struggling to get his fingers around the seatbelt buckle.

"Ah, never better," Soap replied as he unbuckled himself. He and Price stared out the windshield and watched as the truck behind them emptied itself out of soldiers clothed in stark black bulletproof vests, all of them armed with shotguns and semi-automatics.

Price gripped a flashbang he had at his feet and pulled the pin, then hooked his arm through the window and let go. The flashbang bounced in front of the black soldiers before exploding, thereby disorienting them.

While they were distracted, Soap and Price freed themselves from Nikolai's Jeep Wrangler. They immediately took each side of the overturned vehicle and armed themselves with their weapons, then proceeded to unleash fire on their assailants.

A few of them went down from lucky shots to the head, but their bulletproof vests kept them protected for the most part. Once the soldiers had regained their composure, they silently fired off magazines of bullets down on Soap and Price. They dove to the back of the Jeep, then remained there while they reloaded.

"What is the purpose of this bloody nonsense?!" Price yelled at them. "You have drawn first blood on us."

No one on the opposing side said anything. Price and Soap pushed the Jeep sideways to provide them better cover. "Speak now or we will open fire again!"

There was more silence, then a man in a strapping business suit stepped out and told his soldiers to lower their weapons. He was tall and his muscles seemed too big to fit in that suit of his. His jet-black hair was slicked back and braided at the end. Clean cut killer.

"We would like it very much if you turned over the package to us now," he said. "We might even let you walk away from this alive."

Price's brow furrowed while Soap watched the men through the broken windows of the Jeep. "What is the package?" Soap asked.

"Don't play the fuckers that don't know shit, you two," the man in the suit replied sharply, his voice a little more venomous. "Vladimir Makarov, that son of a bitch."

Price looked down at Soap, dumbfounded.

"We do not have Vladimir Makarov, nor do we seek to look for him," Price replied back to the man in the business suit.

"Please don't lie to us," the man spoke harshly. His soldiers were raising their weapons again, and this time he made no move to stop them. "I'm going to give you one more chance. Where - is - Makarov?"

Just then, there was this deafening whistling sound in the sky above them, and the man in the suit and all of his soldiers looked up to see a missile coming down on them. The projectile made contact and impacted directly on the soldiers' phalanx, and they all flew in opposite directions as if they were pieces of a popped balloon. The man in the suit barely had enough time to get out of the way before Soap and Price used the strange event to their advantage and let loose a barrage of bullets on him. The man in the suit collapsed onto the ground, his chest like a piece of Swiss cheese. Blood pooled around his body as he passed into the embrace of death.

"What the hell was that?" Price inquired.

"Looked like a Predator missile, if you ask me," Soap replied, swallowing. "But, that's not even possible. The Predator is the property of the United..."

Then another missile came down and struck the ground right next to the overturned Jeep. The car jumped off the ground from the force of the impact and Soap and Price would have been crushed if they hadn't jumped out of the way at the last second.

"That can't be good," Soap said nervously. Suddenly, he yelped, and as he turned and passed out Price could see a tranquilizer dart sprouting out of his neck.

"Soap!" he yelled, but then another tranquilizer dart planted itself right below his ear, and he fell unconscious in the four seconds that followed.


	7. Getting Better

******'Getting Better'  
Day 2 - 06:13:10  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Baku, Azerbaijan**

Roach awoke, startled, when Ms. Sharp gently jostled him by the shoulder.

"Sir?" she said, trying to make sure Roach was fully awake before she said anything else. "Sorry I could not tell you sooner, but you needed sleep. The operation on your friend was successful, he is recovering in one of the rooms as we speak." She pointed to a room at the end of the hallway. "He has some minor burns apart from the bullet wound..." Ms. Sharp's eyes drifted down to Roach's stomach, where one side was caked with dried blood. Roach had forgotten about _his_ wounds. "You can visit him if you'd like, but do be quiet. The cost of the operation will be arranged later."

"Nah, I'll get it over with right now." He fingered one of his jacket pockets looking for his emergency cash. In training, he had learned every type of currency for every country, and what the equivalents were to each other. It took him a moment to remember that Azerbaijan took manat bills, so he pulled out half of a wad of manats and thrust them into Ms. Sharp's petite hands. She looked down on the money with surprise as Roach got up and walked swiftly down the hallway.

"But sir, this is too much," Ms. Sharp started, but Roach wasn't listening. All he needed was the closure that Ghost was alright.

He stood in front of the door that was supposedly Ghost's room. He leaned forward and pressed his nose against the glass, trying to look into the dark room. Ghost was lying on the white bed in a hospital gown, with one of those nose IVs in his nostrils. A few monitor wires were plugged onto his chest to observe his heart rate and respiration, but it seemed unnecessary as Ghost was breathing just fine.

Roach quietly turned the doorknob and walked inside, closing the door behind him. He let out a silent sigh of relief that Ghost was fine. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down in it, keeping his eyes focused on the face of a man believed to be dead.

Some of the hospital employees were coming into the building, the work hours starting to come around, and they began switching on all of the lights in the hospital. Someone was on the speakerphone saying something to the workers in Azerbaijan-language.

The speakerphone chatter was enough the bring Ghost around. His eyes opened slowly and the first thing he saw was Roach staring back at him.

"Hey, Ghost, how are you holding up?" Roach asked.

Ghost sat up in the bed and put a hand over his chest, which he felt was wrapped in gauze. "Good, I guess. Feels like a got a bloody cinderblock on my chest, but I'm good."

Roach chuckled softly. "Did they tell you when you'd be all healed up and ready to go?"

"Roach, they don't need to tell me a thing," Ghost replied. "If I'm feeling alright, I'm good to go. Trust me on that." He felt the gauze on his chest again, as if trying to feel under all of it just to make sure that there was a neat cut along his collarbones that was stitched up tidily. "A few hours, tops, unless we're getting ourselves into a fight..."

"A fight seems unlikely. All we're doing is taking a drive to Afghan, regroup with the captains. We should be fine."

At that moment, music began to play softly throughout the hospital. Roach couldn't quite place what it was right away, but Ghost could. He seemed to enjoy it, because he was slowly rocking his head back and forth to the sound.

"The Beatles," Ghost sighed. "I had no idea Azerbaijan folk listened to them."

_"I've got to admit, it's getting better...a little better...all the time..."_

"Do you know if the operation was free?" Ghost inquired as he reached for the styrofoam cup sitting on the nightstand. He swallowed a mouthful of water before resuming his question. "Because, you know, we're part of an international task force..."

"I paid her all I could - as far as I know, it was enough," Roach interrupted. "You aren't going to be running for a while, you know. Might hurt to get winded, if you know what I mean."

"Well, like you said, a fight is unlikely," said Ghost. "I might not _need_ to run." He took another gulp of water, then weighed the cup in his hand as if to assure himself that it was completely empty.

"Alright, you hungry? 'Cause hospital food is shitty and I could go get some Mickey D's..."

"No, it's fine. I'll just settle for hospital breakfast. Of course, _you_ could go get breakfast on your own if you want. I'll be okay here."

Roach paused for a moment, thinking over his next choice of words. "If you're really feeling better, then we should leave Baku by the evening."

"That's brilliant," Ghost said. "We'll do that. 'Till then, scram. Don't want the locals noticing that _you're_ in bad condition, too." He looked at Roach's singed clothes and the bullet wound. "Could get delayed even more."

"Right," Roach agreed with a smile. "Alright, get well soon, I guess. I'll, uh, go fuel up the truck and stock up on stuff for the trip to Afghan."

With that, Roach got up and left the room while the music on the speaker began to call out,_ "Getting so much better all the time..."_


	8. My Brother's Keeper

**'My Brother's Keeper'  
Day 3 - 16:57:37  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Location Unknown  
**

When Soap finally came to, he reflexively shot a hand up to his neck where he remembered getting a sharp needle prick and sure enough, that area of his neck was sore. He rubbed at it while trying to come up with a better knowledge of his surroundings.

He was in the corner of what seemed to be a log cabin, but there was a big wooden table with an immense amount of papers and photographs across from him on the other side of the room. But that wasn't the only thing on the desk. There were laptops, a Predator drone console (explaining the previous attack), GPS units...the whole nine yards. Out of the corner of his eye Price sat right next to him, unconsciously leaning against the wall.

On the left side of the room was an archway that led to another room, and then as if on cue, a man stepped out from under the arch and into the main room.

He was skinny with disheveled hair and wild, tired eyes. He was carelessly dressed in a dirty undershirt with suspenders on, yet despite the personal hygiene, there was something...stately, Soap would say, about this man. Like he was the richest man in the world who had just tried camping for the first time in his life.

The man, seeing that Soap was awake, went over to the table and retrieved a black mug. He walked quietly back to Soap and crouched down on the balls of his feet, offering Soap the mug.

"Drink," he said, in a thick Russian accent. "It is tea."

Soap accepted the mug, but did not drink out of it. He kept his watchful eyes on this mysterious man as he stood back up, looking down on him with an understanding look on his face. He then sighed heavily and returned to the table, where he sifted through the papers for a few moments before withdrawing a small whistle from the mess. He hurried over to Price and - to Soap's surprise and discomfort - blew the whistle.

Price bolted awake, his limbs in a quick jumble. "Fuck, man! What'd you do that for?!"

"Sorry," the man said sincerely. "It's not easy awakening a tranquilized man out here."

Price stood up, Soap following suit. "Who are you?"

The man cast the whistle behind him. "I am Cain Makarov, brother of Vladimir Makarov."

"You're that son of a bitch's brother?!" Soap exclaimed. "What the hell is going on here? There were some soldiers who attacked us because they thought we had him, then you come along and knock us out!" While Soap went on a rant, Price remained quiet while he looked over the Makarov brother skeptically.

"Yes, I'm sorry for that," Cain Makarov apologized. "I promise you, I do not take after my brother's ways, nor do I agree with them."

"We don't agree with his ways either," Price agreed, stepping forward and putting a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "What do you want with us?"

"Want from you?" Cain asked incredulously. "I just saved your skins from those men out there on the river and you think I have ulterior motives? What kind of world do you think we live in?"

"A world of psychopathic lawbreakers and cold-hearted terrorists," Soap answered immediately.

"Ah, yes, quite right," Cain mumbled. "Okay, so I've been tracking this Russian terrorist who I've taken the liberty of deeming 'Target Alpha' - I've been looking over American army tactics, so don't judge me - "

Soap and Price looked at each other, conveying the same thought: _Is this loser for real?_

" - anyway, this man sent out a threat to America just a few hours ago, and I believe I've gotten his location..."

Price's eyes lit up. "Wait...this threat came in just today?" Was it the same threat they had intercepted earlier that morning?

Cain blinked at them. "Yes. What is the matter?"

"Did this man go on about how America needs to pay for the incident at the Zakhaev airport?"

"Umm..." Cain muttered, as if he was receiving the letdown that he wasn't the only one tracking a terrorist threat that no one else in the world had seemed to hear. "Yes, actually. Have you intercepted this transmission?"

"Yes," Soap answered for Price. "We believe he's in Moscow."

"That is what I have found, too," Cain added. "But I have actually deducted the _exact site_ of his location. And when I say _exact site_, I mean latitude and longitude down to the point degree."

"What is his location?" Price inquired, a little more furious now that someone who had saved his ass actually knew more about something he was trying to stop. Moscow was a big city - the terrorist could be anywhere.

"Alright, tell you what. I'll make you two a reasonable deal." Cain seated himself on the edge of the cluttered table. "The men who attacked you had Vladimir in their custody, but he escaped and has now been captured by the Vanguard, a pathetic little drug cartel whose camp is just a few miles from here. If you help me get my brother back, I will give you the location of the terrorist."

"And why should we help you?" Soap asked, crossing his arms.

"Lest you forget, I saved your lives, now you would do well to return the favor," Cain explained matter-of-factly. "Do not fret - I won't let my brother walk out of this cabin freely...I've got some things planned for him." After all, Cain's brother had just ignited a deadly war against America by murdering thousands of innocent Russian civilians - he wasn't going to let his brother go unpunished for his atrocious actions.

"One more thing," Price added. "Why should we keep our side of this deal when we could just kill you and find the coordinates ourselves?"

"I have planned for every contingency," Cain answered, his voice poisonous. "The coordinates are on my laptop, which I've rigged to encrypt itself every few minutes." Behind Cain, the laptop's screen went black and was then replaced by a binary code of green zeros and ones. "Even the most experienced hacker would have trouble." He seemed to be addressing Soap.

Soap and Price looked at each other, and without further discussion Price turned his attention back to Cain and questioned, "Where is the Vanguard?"


	9. Unholy Alliance

**'Unholy Alliance'  
Day 3 - 17:13:52  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Turkmenistan-Uzbekistan Border**

The sun was lowering, messing with Soap's state of mind and causing him to focus on his own shadow instead of the mission at hand. Honestly, Vlad Makarov could rot with the Vanguard for all he cared. But Captain Price wanted to get those coordinates without harming an innocent person, and this rule applied conveniently to Cain, who was crouched beside him with a sniper rifle.

It felt good to have a silenced sniper rifle in his hands again. Price had undergone an assignment with Captain MacMillan years ago - both of them armed with sniper rifles - in which they almost succeeded in the assassination of Zakhaev. If the bullet had veered just a little higher, this whole mess could have been avoided. So many things would have turned out differently. Price probably wouldn't have been locked up in a gulag for the last five years. Vladimir Makarov would have never ignited a war.

And Gaz wouldn't have died.

With watches synchronized to go off at 5:15 PM, Soap, Price, and Cain agreed on their strike. On the other side of the truck they were hiding behind was the campsite of the Vanguard. It consisted of about ten or so canvas tents all set up in a neat square grid, with a larger (and more luxurious) main tent in the middle. Trucks loaded with illegal drugs surrounded the camp, parked carelessly, but giving the trio a good plan for cover.

Cain's watch watch beeped quietly, followed by Soap's and Price's. The two captains looked at Cain stupidly, as if to say _Set your fucking watch right next time_.

Cain ignored the little hiccup in synchronization and tossed a smoke grenade into the campsite. When the smoke cloud arose, there were some startled voices talking in the white dust, and this allowed the trio to run into the smoke and let loose a silent barrage of bullets into every tent. The bullets passed through the material as if it were water, only to connect with a Vanguard drug trafficker a split-second later.

They knew to do this because Cain had explained how objects of interest were always kept in the main tent, so Vladimir couldn't have been in any of the smaller ones.

Soap, Price, and Cain padded through the campsite toward the middle tent, where some voices were apparently debating over whether or not to check outside. The three men took cover on the sides of the entrance, and when a Vanguard guy stepped out with assess the situation, Price stepped over and drove his knife into the man's throat. He let out a gurgle as a red spray jetted out of his neck, and then his body crumpled down to the ground.

They silently waited a moment, making sure that there were no more hostiles in the tent other than Vlad, and they stepped inside.

Immediately a baseball bat cracked on the back of Cain's head and he fell unconscious.

With a surprised yelp, Soap backed up to see two burly men with snake-like tattoos on their arms guarding their side of the entrance, and when their eyes locked with each others', Soap and Price released fire on them and the bullets penetrated their chests so easy.

Vladmir Makarov sat in the center of the main tent, silenced and bound to a chair with duct tape. Price regarded him and put the sniper in the holster on his back and approached Vladimir while Soap went over to check on Cain.

"Possible concussion," he concluded, but Price wasn't listening. He was still staring at Vladmir, both of their eyes filled with anger. Price was angry because of what Vlad had obviously done; Vlad was angry because he was in a position in which his only rescuers could be his enemies.

To Price, he had a moment of deja vu - this felt like the time where he had shot Al-Asad through the forehead while he was tied up to a chair.

Cain began to come to, but very slowly. Vladimir looked down on him and finally recognized him. He said something, but under the duct tape it was unclear what he uttered.

"I'm sorry, what, you son of a bitch?" Price asked, wanting so badly to kill this man for what he had done. The opportunity for revenge was deathly tempting, but Cain wanted Vlad alive if they were to get the coordinates to the terrorist's location.

Cain stood up, woozy, while Soap reluctantly helped him up. "Vladimir," he said.

Vlad said something else that was muffled under the tape.

Price stooped up to the chair, pinched the corner of the duct tape, and tore it off.

Vlad groaned, then flexed his mouth by opening it a few times, just to get the feeling that the duct tape had taken away. "What are you doing with my brother, John Price?" he spoke sourly.

"As a matter of fact, your brother is doing with us," Price said. He turned to Cain. "We got you to your brother. What are the coordinates?"

Cain shook his head. "First, we're loading him into the back of one of the trucks and heading back to my place. Then you get your coordinates."

Soap and Price walked over to the chair and prepared to unbind Vladimir, but Cain raised a hand to stop them. "Keep him in the chair," he said devilishly.


	10. Whereabouts

******'Whereabouts'  
Day 4 - 15:20:41  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Afghanistan**

"Where exactly did you expect to find them, Roach?" asked Ghost. Over the past day, he had recovered remarkably and his breathing was flawless in execution.

"Well, I was hoping they'd just...be around, you know," said Roach. "Hey, check your radio."

Ghost pulled the radio out of his back jeans pocket. Roach had spent the last of the manats on some breakfast and new clothes for both of them, because their old clothes were bloody and burned. Also, it gave Roach and opportunity to carefully remove the bullet in his side with his fingers...while inside a changing room. It was a bloody mess that Roach just covered with his burned uniforms.

Ghost turned the dial on the radio. "Captain Soap, Captain Price, do you read? This is Ghost and Roach, broadcasting from Afghanistan." Roach blinked at him, surprised he wasn't saying _This is _Gaz_ and Roach, broadcasting from Afghanistan._

As both of them expected, there was only static on the other end. It puzzled both of them as well, for there wasn't a good reason why their radios shouldn't be working. He pocketed the radio. "Bloody useless."

Just then, someone surfaced from an underground bunker of some kind. It was a Russian man, and when he saw the two comrades his jaw dropped. Not so much at Roach, but more at Ghost.

"Gaz...you're - you're alive!" the man shouted. That's when Ghost finally recognized him.

"Nikolai...?" he uttered, but was then swept up in a Nikolai bear hug. Roach just watched. He had never really met Nikolai in person, but he knew how Soap, Price, and Gaz knew him.

"Do the captains know?" Nikolai asked desperately.

"No...no, they don't," Ghost said. "I - I don't really know how to break it to them."

"Well, you just missed them, my friend!" Nikolai said, throwing his hands up to emphasize his point. "They just left yesterday."

"They were _here?_" Roach asked incredulously. "Where were they going?"

"Moscow, my friends," Nikolai replied. "You see, Captain Soap intercepted a terrorist threat, he and Captain Price are going there to _investigate_. Might help clear their names."

"Wait..._clear their names?_" Ghost repeated. "What happened?"

"You know, Gaz, Shepherd put them on the government's list for fear of them jeopardizing his plan." It seemed like a pretty credible reason for two Task Force 141 men to find themselves on the wanted list.

Ghost and Roach locked eyes with each other. Shepherd had ruined both sides of Task Force 141. "Where is Shepherd?" Roach asked Nikolai, a little mad now.

"He is dead," Nikolai said matter-of-factly. "Knife wound right to the face. Have to say he deserved it." Roach was about to open his mouth again, when Nikolai quickly added, "Captain MacTavish threw the knife, if you're wondering."

"Yeah, I was wondering." Roach thought this over while Ghost and Nikolai engaged in some catch-up conversation. The captains were going to Moscow, Russia to look into a terrorist threat. If they had left yesterday, maybe he and Ghost could get there in time before they left.

"Ghost," Roach said, bringing his comrade away from Nikolai. "If they're looking into a terrorist threat, things might get dangerous for them. You think maybe we should...I dunno, go and see them?"

Ghost's eyes widened. "Yes, right." He turned back to his old friend. "Nikolai, we're going to Moscow to help the captains if they need assistance. Just, uh, keep in touch on whatever happens in the city, alright?"

Nikolai inclined his head. "I understand, my friends. Go now, while there's still time."

Roach thought Nikolai meant "time" as in "time to get to Moscow," but it felt more like something bad was going to happen and there wasn't going to be enough "time" to see that bad event unfold.


	11. Reconnaissance

**'Reconnaissance'  
Day 5 - 08:22:41  
'Soap' MacTavish  
Moscow, Russia**

The truck from the Vanguard's camp pulled to a stop outside of Red Square, and the two men inside laid themselves back on the seats in exhaustion. For two days straight they had driven towards Moscow, and now that they had arrived, they could not help but feel the exhaustion of their endeavors catch up to them, each of them only with a couple hours' sleep.

But despite Soap and Price's exhaustion, they had an important mission at hand that determined the fate of the United States of America.

"It's been days since the threat was made," Soap reminded Price as they got out of the truck. "The guy might not even be there."

"Maybe not," Price said. "But all the terrorists I know, save for Makarov, are just plain stupid. The guy would have left clues as to where he'd go if he's not there."

Soap nodded, then got out of the truck and unloaded the two black duffel bags from the back. Each one held a USP .45 handgun along with a M16A4 assault rifle, loads of magazines to reload with, and a few breach charges. Soap and Price were all set to go.

Cain Makarov had given them the coordinates of the terrorist's transmission exactly - but the end result was disappointing. The location ended up somewhere in the Saint Basil's Cathedral in the heart of Red Square. The cathedral was rather large and would require some time to locate the exact position, but luckily Cain had given Price a GPS device to help them navigate to the precise latitude/longitude location of 55° 45' 10.64" N, 37° 37' 23.23" E.

When both of them had a duffel bag slung over their shoulders, Price asked, "You ready, Soap?"

Soap merely nodded, then the both of them proceeded to exit the lot and head into the square.

Red Square was not as crowded as Times Square, but there were still many people standing and walking around the place, moving liabilities who were in danger of getting hurt if this terrorist _actually_ knew what the hell he was doing. There were city folk and tourists galore, but not one of them paid Soap or Price any attention while they strode in silence through the crowds and towards Saint Basil's.

The two of them kept their heads down as they passed under the archway leading to the inside of the cathedral, passing by tourists taking memorable pictures of each other by the use of digital cameras. Price stopped and whipped out the GPS device, then input the coordinates and waited for the device to process it. Then he gestured to a door at the other end of a brick stage across the room, and this door had old rope laced across it.

Walking toward the door, Soap looked behind them hoping that no one was getting suspicious of them. Fortunately, no on was even giving them second glances. Price swatted away the ropes with the back of his hand and pried open the door, closing the hunk of aged wood behind him and Soap.

Now that it seemed they were completely cut off from the public's eye, Soap and Price armed themselves with the weapons in their bags, a few mags, and one of the breach charges. Then they discarded the bags in a pile along the musty stone wall.

"Alright, the GPS says the transmission broadcast originated over this way," Price notified Soap, pointing down a long stony hallway occasionally lit by a small square window looking out over Red Square.

Soap and Price quietly walked down the hallway, Price in front as he led Soap down the hall, up a cramped spiral staircase to an upper floor, then they both stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" Soap whispered, tapping his index finger along the trigger of the M16A4.

Price looked back at Soap and then gestured to one of the filthy wooden doors that lined the upper hallway like a hostel dormitory. "Breach and capture alive if possible," Price ordered with a whisper of his own.

They padded along silently over to the door, both of them taking opposite sides of it. Soap looked at Price who then nodded quickly, and then Soap planted the charge on the door, stepped back, and the door exploded.

Soap and Price headed into the room while the splinters of exploded wood still floated around them. With fast reflexes the two captains confirmed the room was completely clear of any humans. As soon as the explosion shrapnel hit the floor, Price referred back to the GPS, which told the two they had reached their destination.

The room was a love letter to anyone who respected surveillance, recon, and communication technology. The room was small, but packed to its neck with books about Russian and American culture, with a desk against the wall covered with papers, more books, and a few laptops. A map of Russia and a map of America were nailed to the wall, each map having important-looking notes on them. Price turned his attention to a pile of empty boxes in the corner of the room. He approached them and read off the mailing label.

"Seems like our terrorist's name is...Constantin Radunski," Price announced as Soap kept regarding things around the room.

The most notable of what Soap regarded were the maps. America was marked to show the damage of what attack Mr. Radunski was planning. On the other hand, the Russian map had a single spot circled on it, and when Soap leaned in closer to make out what it was, the chicken-scratch notes to the side read _Buturlinovka air base, deploy the shipment at 0900 hours._

"Our terrorist ordered quite a few shipments of...um, Soap?"

"What, Price?" Soap looked back at his comrade, who was showing some slight shock on his face. Price picked up a box and showed Soap the side of it, where in stark black stamping ink was a single word, enough to imbue terror to anyone who read it and did not know what was going on. One word to sum up the danger of the situation. One word to explain it all.

**[BIOHAZARD]**


	12. Collision Course

**'Collision Course'  
Day 5 - 08:58:18  
'Soap' MacTavish  
****Buturlinovka Air Base****, Russia**

Ten Sukhoi SU-25s, otherwise known as "Frogfoots," lined the alert pads at each end of the long runway, which seemed very empty except for the truck pulling onto the runway and the lone Frogfoot sitting in the middle of it.

Soap and Price threw open the truck doors and sprinted toward the lonely SU-25, guns trained on the hull in case of a surprise. The belly of the aircraft was covered in three layers of thick, squarish bags, each one stuck together by means of duct tape and welding. The word **[BIOHAZARD]** was clear on each bag, only making Soap more nervous that his earlier theory was right on the money. There was no way of knowing if whatever was going to be released on the United States was Sarin to begin with, and he wasn't about to strike open one of the bags to see if he was right.

A few blinking lights intercepted the bags' surface in a gridlike pattern, all of the lights blinking on and off at the same time. A signal receiver was wedged in between the square biohazard bags in the middle of the grid. Its antenna stuck out over the packages, ready to receive orders to carry out its mission. Soap was thinking about taking the receiver out, but then the biological agent would still be out here in the open for anyone to come in contact with. No, they needed to destroy this.

Price studied the danger with much curiosity, but shook it off and made it clear he meant business when he said, "Soap, you've got the explosives. Plant some C4 on this thing."

Soap was about to object, not just to say that his life would be in danger, but also everyone nearby if this went wrong. Then, as if Price knew what he was thinking, he assured him, "This place is a pure Russian ghost town. No one's life will be in danger."

Soap hesitated, but then remembered they had only moments before the aircraft took off for America. He reached for the C4 he had taken from the truck and ran over to the belly of the craft, then set to work on planting the explosives while lying down under it.

Just then, both of their watches beeped. In horror, Soap realized it was the hourly beep on their watches, that it was already 0900 hours and the Frogfoot was going to go remotely...

The Sukhoi SU-25 took off, gliding over Soap's body while he struggled to contain his flinch, dropping the unprepared C4 on the ground. "Price - !" he shrieked, but Price wasn't where he was standing. Instead, he was just getting into one of the Frogfoots.

"Are you off your rocker?!" Soap yelled incredulously as Price sat himself down in the pilot's seat and strapped himself in.

"Probably, Soap," Price responded with an unsure smile. The cockpit window closed over him and he took off after the Frogfoot with the biological agents.

Soap watched Price chase after the aircraft in horror. What was he planning to do in order to stop it?

Price looked around the cockpit while trying to keep his target in his sights. He had very little experience with aircrafts other than helicopters. He knew from early training that SU-25s had pilot-manned cannons beneath the cockpit, but he couldn't locate the button or lever necessary to drop him down to the cannon. All he managed to find were the controls of the Frogfoot and an eject button. He looked back at the escaping Frogfoot and decided on a very rash decision.

The captain went full force on the throttle and propelled himself closer to the target. He swerved around it and went a long way ahead of it before making a sharp, abrupt U-turn and facing the Frogfoot.

Soap watched, terrified. Was Price going to do what he thought he was going to do?

Price gave his aircraft all the throttle she had and raced toward his target, ready for the head-on collision. He waited for the right moment, his heart racing. "Ah, bollocks..." he sighed.

"Price! Get out of there!" Soap screamed from hundreds of yards away, knowing that his warning was completely futile.

Right before the two Frogfoots collided, Price smashed his fist against the eject button and he flew skyward and back toward the runway as if he had just been launched from a slingshot. He dared to steal a glance back where the two aircrafts had crashed into each other, the explosion occurring with a deafening roar and releasing the biological agent like a rapidly-spreading ash cloud.

The cloud of chemicals spread outward for a long distance and it became clear to Soap and Price that it wasn't going to stop. The parachute on Price's chair deployed, but he descended slowly and would be eaten alive by the chemical cloud unless he moved his ass.

He pulled out his pistol from his holster and shot a couple of holes in the parachute, causing him to drop down at a faster rate.

Soap saw that Price's parachute would land him close to the truck so he high-tailed it back to the vehicle just in time for Price to cut himself free of the pilot's seat and touch down. He sprinted towards the truck as Soap took the driver's seat.

"Let's get the 'ell out of here, Soap!" Price exclaimed as he jumped into the passenger seat.

"Already on it," Soap said shakily, turning the truck around and heading in the direction of Moscow. Behind the two captains, the cloud of biological agents continued to grow, no doubt because of the vast amount of the stuff to begin with.

"There's no way that stuff can be contained long enough to get our asses out of here," Soap informed Price. "We need to hunker down somewhere."

"Moscow," Price answered almost immediately. "Russia's been dabbling in the nuke business for years now. Moscow ought to have built some fallout shelters."

"Good point," Soap replied as he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.


	13. Fallout

Hey, everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long for me to upload. My laptop's hard drive started failing so I had to buy a new one and get it repaired. Fortunately, it was my awesome Geometry teacher who fixed it for me, and he didn't even charge me! So therefore, this chapter is dedicated to my Geometry teacher Christopher Meglio, who is about as big a _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ fan as I am. Thanks, Mr. Meglio!

* * *

******'Fallout'  
Day 6 - 11:44:09  
Sgt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson  
Task Force 141  
Moscow, Russia**

Fortunately for Roach and Ghost, Nikolai remembered to tell them about Soap's Sarin theory and all about the dangers of the biological agent. He gave them four biohazard suits just in case they needed them if Soap turned out to be right. Two for them, two for the captains.

Roach and Ghost had switched driving roles all through the next two days, and if they were ever both awake, they'd exchange worst case scenarios.

"Remember, no one's coming to help us," Ghost had reminded Roach. "We're dead on the radar right now, probably M.I.A. or something." If they had been K.I.A., people would suspect, which was bad to Shepherd's plans until Soap took his life.

The radio Nikolai had given them started to buzz with intermittent static. Roach was driving and with his free hand turned a dial on the console to free up the signal.

"My friends," Nikolai's voice spoke, "looks like Moscow is heated up right now. Be careful."

"Understood," Roach and Ghost said at the same time to the radio. Nikolai's voice disappeared and the console automatically turned off after its transmission.

The old stolen truck from the Georgian-Russian Border was beginning to show its age now, with its rumbling, coughing start-up and limits on its own speed. It was a miracle it didn't break down before they had the silhouettes of Moscow in their sights.

The vehicle lurched to a stop miles away from Moscow - not because it had broken down, but because there was a massive roadblock and large chainlink fences surrounding a radius around the city. Moscow seemed to be enveloped in city smog, but with Nikolai's earlier warning it was clear that the biological chemicals had been released.

Russian police and military might guarded the multiple chainlink fences separating them from the distance between them and Moscow. Yet there were so many people there - some escaping citizens, others the guards - that no one paid them a second glance when Roach and Ghost stepped out of the truck.

They casually went to the back of the truck and sealed themselves in their biohazard suits. When Roach caught a glimpse of Ghost's back, he found that the back of each suit said **EXTRACTION TEAM** in several different languages, each line topped over the other. The two comrades zipped up their suits and fastened the gas masks to their faces before they strode toward the fences.

The guards looked at them quizzically, almost as if they were all thinking at the same time, _Did we order an extraction team?_ To Roach and Ghost's relief, they made no move to stop the two as they climbed over the fence to apparently bring two people of interest out of the city, judging by the extra suits.

"You know, a lot of things could have turned out differently," Roach said. "I mean, if you had _told_ them who you were, man..."

"It's one of those moments, Roach," Ghost replied. "The kind where you really have no bloody idea what to say. I'm preparing for this. Still, I wish I still had my mask."

Roach shrugged. "Maybe you can skip the whole homecoming waterworks because they'll be pissed that they've been thinking for five years that you were dead."

The conversation lasted only as long as the walk from the set-up boundary to the city itself. When they stepped onto the streets of Moscow, it was then that the both of them began to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. The city seemed to be enveloped in a fog that was of a sickening, nameless color, existing there and taking the lives of anyone unfortunate enough to be in the middle of it. The chemical fog was so thick that the afternoon sun was not shining through to the city.

The many nameless people of Moscow who just a day before were healthy and on their feet were now dead and lying on the ground in puddles of their own excretions. Roach felt nauseous at the sight of all of them, and Ghost was taking it hard as well - he didn't really like Russians, only the good ones.

"Ghost, where would a fallout shelter in Moscow be?" asked Roach.

"Well, umm..." The two comrades came to a standstill. "Underground...and Moscow has a subway system..."

"...the Moscow subway has a bomb shelter!" Roach exclaimed. "People could be using those to save their asses right about now! If Moscow was the last place the captains were, they would have _had_ to taken refuge there!"

With that revelation, the two of them sprinted towards the nearest entrance to Moscow's subway. The subway looked nothing like the American ones, appearing more like museum hallways and trains. Roach and Ghost checked out each tunnel, searching for any kind of shelter, when Ghost called out, "I think I've found it!"

Roach and Ghost sprinted down the tunnel where Ghost had seen something and they stopped in front of a large metal door in the ground. It was locked tight, with wet footprints heading towards it and then disappearing. The subway was underground so those footprints wouldn't have had time to dry up, so they must have been fresh.

Ghost crouched down and knocked on the metal door. Roach and Ghost waited anxiously, and then someone under the metal door knocked back.

"Hello?" Ghost yelled. "Who's down there?"

Underneath the door, there were some Russian cries for help, untranslatable but clear to hear. "Captain MacTavish! Captain Price! Are you two down there?" cried Roach.

There were some more Russian screaming, but then out of the pandemonium came a familiar voice. "Ghost? Roach?"

"Captain Price! Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Ghost! I thought you and Roach were dead!"

Captain Price's voice in the middle of the chaotic situation was so surreal. "We'll explain that later, but can we get in?" yelled Roach.

"Maybe! If you can get inside fast enough, the chemicals might not have a chance to get inside here!"

"You all might want to stand back!" Ghost screamed at the metal door. Roach and Ghost set the extra biohazard suits aside and pulled out their pistols. With haste, they shot off all of the locks bolting the door into the ground. Then the two of them slid their fingers into one side of it.

"Ready?" Roach said. Ghost nodded. "One, two, three!" And they heaved the metal door open.


	14. Reunion

******'Reunion'  
Day 6 - 12:00:00  
Simon "Gaz/Ghost" Riley  
Task Force 141  
Moscow, Russia**

The metal door shut behind them with a deafening _clang_ as Roach and Ghost descended into the bomb shelter, dragging the two extra biohazard suits down with them. Everyone who was inside - a group large enough to fill maybe half an apartment building - remained back with their hands over their mouths to prevent themselves from breathing in any of the Sarin that could have gotten inside when Roach and Ghost entered.

Captain Price stood in front of all the Russian civilians with a look that was a definite mixture of shock and joy. Captain MacTavish - or just "Soap" as Ghost used to call him - stood alongside the second captain with an equivalent expression.

Ghost was about to open his mouth to say he was sorry for not telling them who he was, but instead Soap came over to him and took him in a giant bear hug.

"You motherfucker," Soap said joyously, "we thought you were dead. How stupid is it that we would've thought you died _twice?_"

Roach stood still on the sidelines as the captains affiliated themselves with their old comrade. He felt slightly out of place, how he had come after all that those three had endured and expected to be a solid link in the team, how he had kept jeopardizing their missions by falling unconscious so many times...

Ghost looked back at Roach who was now studying his feet. He understood how his comrade was feeling right now, so he decided to give him some recognition. He walked over to Roach, put his arm around his back, and pushed him toward the captains.

"Roach saved my life," Ghost said with a grin. Roach stared at him with a sheepish expression. "If it weren't for him, we wouldn't be having this heartfelt reunion right now."

Soap walked over to Roach. He revealed a toothy, goofy smile and a slight chuckle to boot. "Excellent work, Sergeant!" He held out his hand, and Roach thrust his hand into it and gave a firm shake before stepping back again quietly. "What's going on here, anyway?" Roach asked. "Nikolai told us you two were looking into a terrorist threat?"

"Yes," said Price. "Constantin Radunski - just a mad Russian, that's all. But he was going to biologically attack America, but thanks to an impulsive action on my part, the agents were released here in Russia."

"We could tell," said Ghost. "People all over the place, puke in their mouths...it's horrible out there."

Soap looked at Price. "Then it _must_ be Sarin."

Price nodded, then turned back to Roach and Ghost. "We've heard talk from some of the big ones in here that the Russian government is going to wash Moscow down with an experimental counter-toxin they've been developing. They're confident it will get rid of the Sarin, but it's only a prototype. They're not big on calling it that."

"But what about this Radunski character?" asked Ghost. "If the Sarin had been released short of its destined location, he would try to pull it off again."

"We figured that as well," said Soap. "Thing is, we can't do anything about it. We're trapped in here."

Roach held the two biohazard suits up in front of the captains. "Not anymore. If there's even the smallest chance this terrorist is going to try again, we have to stop him."

As the captains dressed themselves in the suits, Soap said, "There's something about this Task Force that always gets us into situations where we're saving America's ass."

Price laughed. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."

When the captains were all set to go, Roach, Ghost, Soap, and Price told the Russian civilians in the bomb shelter to back away again and cover their mouths. It was then that Task Force 141 exited the underground bomb shelter and headed into a dangerous world in order to stop a dangerous man.


	15. Inevitable Fate

******'Inevitable Fate'  
Day 6 - 12:28:20  
Simon "Gaz/Ghost" Riley  
Task Force 141  
****Buturlinovka Air Base****, Russia**

The old truck that had gotten Roach and Ghost through so many situations before finally broke down about a mile from the air base full of Sukhoi SU-25s - one of which was being prepared to launch towards the East Coast of America to release a shipment of Sarin, all for revenge under false pretenses. Task Force 141 exited the broken down truck and began sprinting that mile that separated them from the last chance they had to save America.

As much as he wanted to deny it, Ghost had not yet fully recovered from that bullet wound to his airway. He had been perfectly capable of regular breathing, but now the one-mile sprint was stabbing at his throat like a cattle prod, begging him to stop running.

Roach stole a glance at his comrade and immediately understood the situation. The captains were not aware that Ghost was still recovering from a fatal wound, and now seemed like the worst time to bring up that subject. Roach slowed down his pace just to get near Ghost so he could speak with him as they tore across the field around the air base.

"If you're not feeling up to this, Ghost, you could just stop," Roach suggested. "The captains and I will go take care of this."

Ghost glared at Roach incredulously and slugged Roach in the face. "Shut the fuck up. I'm not going to let this bloody injury slow me down, and you don't have to keep looking after me, man."

Roach rubbed his cheek and gave Ghost an understanding look. The Task Force kept running and after just a few minutes, they had reached the edge of the paved runway.

A lone man was crouched underneath one of the Frogfoot aircrafts, fastening a remote signal receiver to the layer of squarish bags on its belly. The man looked to see Task Force 141 sprinting towards him, so he quickly stood up and ran to other side of the SU-25 to take cover.

Task Force 141 brought out their weapons - the captains with their M16A4s, Roach and Ghost with their pistols.

"Remember, we can't damage the Sarin," Price told them quietly. "First we have to apprehend Radunski. Then we dispose of the biological weapons."

The rest of the team nodded, then trained their weapons more accurately on the cover that the man they had seen was behind. They walked closer to the Frogfoot outfitted with the vast amount of Sarin, but then an arm shot up from behind the aircraft, holding a black remote device.

"_Do not_ come any closer!" the man shouted from behind his cover. "If you do, I press this button, and this craft takes off for a one-way trip to the States!"

Soap and Price immediately recognized the voice. It was the same voice from the terrorist threat they had intercepted three days earlier, which meant that this man was Constantin Radunski, the terrorist they had been looking for.

"You'd be stupid to do that, you know," Ghost called out. "If you do, your cover's gone and we have you all to ourselves." As he said this, Soap aimed down sight on his weapon, targeting the remote device. All they needed now was for Radunski to respond to that, to be distracted for that moment so that Soap would have a chance to destroy that remote and any chance of that Frogfoot leaving that air base and heading for America.

"I am willing to die for my country's sake," Radunski replied. "This is an act of justice that my people will - "

Soap pulled the trigger on the M16A4 and the gunshot resounded throughout the field. The bullet soared through the air between the Task Force and Radunski's exposed hand and just when the Task Force thought that they would not be lucky with this shot, the bullet tore through the remote device and it fell out of Radunski's flinching hand in broken metallic pieces. In the second that followed, Radunski gave out a delayed cry of pain when he felt that the bullet cleanly went through his palm. He sprinted out of his cover and tore for the other side of the runway.

Task Force 141 unleashed fire on the terrorist, but they kept missing as the bullets passed through spaces that Radunski was just leaving as he ran with incredible speed to another Frogfoot. He crouched behind the aircraft, defeated, his back to the Task Force that foiled his plans.

Roach stepped forward with a frag grenade. "He said he was willing to die for his country's sake," he told his comrades. "Russia might be better off without a guy like this."

Soap, Price, and Ghost regarded Roach, this being his shining moment and his real admission into Task Force 141 despite being in it for five years. They all nodded their heads and smiled at the fact that the terrorist who had kept the team apart for six days would be gone. Roach pulled the pin off the grenade and lobbed it at the Frogfoot that Radunski was behind. It bounced and rolled to a stop at Radunski's foot, and he made no move to escape his inevitable fate.

The grenade went off, and Radunski's body was blown to the side in the explosion.

"Move out!" Price commanded. "Ghost, Roach, check on Radunski. Soap and I will check the Sarin."

"Affirmative," Ghost answered, then he and Roach jogged over to Ground Zero of Roach's grenade while the captains went to check out the Sarin on the bottom of the Frogfoot aircraft.

Radunski's body lay spread-eagled on the paved runway, his left leg blown off and lying charred and smoking a few feet away. Shrapnel from the grenade had penetrated Radunski's body, mostly on his torso. Ghost crouched down next to the body and tore Radunski's shirt off to see the extent of the damage to his chest. A myriad of shallow cuts permeated the terrorist's flesh, flanked with an even deeper cut on the sternum. Ghost put his finger on where the sternum should have been, but did not feel it there. In response to that revelation, Ghost placed his palm against Radunski's heart while Roach checked if he was still breathing. There was no breath _or_ heartbeat.

"The explosion must have displaced his sternum," Ghost noted. "It's this piece of bone on the chest that if it gets hit hard enough, it bends backward and practically stabs the heart. Shocks it into stopping. It's the reason baseball players die when they get hit in the chest hard with baseballs."

"Confirmed dead?" Roach asked.

"Confirmed dead," Ghost replied with a faint grin playing on his lips. "Bastard had it coming. Let's go check on the captains."

The two comrades jogged across the runway where Soap and Price sat cross-legged underneath the belly of the Sukhoi SU-25. Roach and Ghost sat down next to them, staring at the bags of Sarin duct-taped to the aircraft.

"So how do you figure we get rid of this?" Price asked Soap.

"Hold on," Soap said as he pulled out his radio. He switched it on and turned the dial to clear out the static that remained there like a dust cloud. "Nikolai, come in Nikolai, do you read?"

A moment later, Nikolai responded. "Yes, my friend! You are...all right? Terrorist gone, team reunited?"

"You took the words right outta my mouth, Nikolai," Soap answered as smiles the team could not suppress broke the surface. "You still got access to your helicopter?"

"Yes, my friend."

"We've got an LZ for you. Buturlinovka Air Base, just outside of Moscow. Can you come and pick us up?"

"Absolutely, Captain MacTavish!" Nikolai said enthusiastically. "On my way now. See all of you soon."

Soap switched the radio off, then got to work carefully removing the bags of Sarin from the Frogfoot.

"Soap, you never answered my question," Price reminded him.

"Don't worry, guys," Soap assured the team. "I know exactly how we're going to get rid of this stuff."


	16. The End

**'The End'  
Day 6 - 13:51:58  
Simon "Gaz/Ghost" Riley  
Task Force 141  
Above Europe**

Ghost watched as the Italian landscape passed beneath Nikolai's helicopter. Endless green fields and beautiful cities graced the team's views before the helicopter sped onward and left that part of Italy to itself. Captain Soap had asked Nikolai to "take a more scenic route" and cut through the Mediterranean Sea. It was at this request that the rest of the team started to have suspicions of Soap's plan to dispose of the biological weapons, but they played along nonetheless, knowing they were in for a healthy surprise.

"So what were all of you doing at that airfield?" Nikolai asked from the cockpit.

"Found the terrorist," Captain Price replied. "Soap got in a lucky shot, Roach got in a lucky grenade."

Soap playfully punched Roach in the back. "Thanks for stealing my thunder, Roach." Soap was smiling. "I haven't got in a shot like that since that guy from the favela last week. And this one? Man, I wasn't even using a goddamn _scope!" _

Roach laughed. "What, is the sarge beatin' the cap?" It was starting to feel like old times, when Price was still rotting away and Ghost's identity was still a mystery, but that reminiscent feeling was short-lived considering that those two variables were now opposite of what they used to be.

"Must be,_ Sarge_," Soap chuckled.

"Y'know," started Price, leaning back in his seat as far as it would allow him inside the cramped helicopter with four more people inside, "I think I'm going to retire this bullshit. Being imprisoned in a bloody gulag for five years, thinking that both my friends were dead even though they weren't, having to save America's ass every time shit hits the fan…it's ridiculous."

The remainder of the team could easily sympathize with where their first captain was coming from with sincere understanding. Task Force 141 was a little more than a perfect equivalent to the U.S. Army's infamous B-Company. But John Price was never one to quit in the line of duty, so none of them were even remotely surprised when he said that he was kidding. That he would rather be saving America's ass rather than settling down and doing nothing for the rest of his life.

Nikolai's helicopter flew over an Italian beach that stretched out into the Mediterranean Sea. Soap reached for the metal padlocked box that he had locked the Sarin in and headed for the side of the helicopter. The rest of the task force regarded him and knew what he was about to do. Soap lobbed the box out of the helicopter and the team watched as the sealed box descended downward into the cold waters of the Mediterranean and was lost to its rolling waves.

"And so a nightmare drowns," Ghost stated in a tone of voice that made it sound like he was concluding a grand story.

"Yeah," Roach responded. "And so it does."

"Well, I can't believe that I forgot to tell you, Captain Price and Captain Soap," said Nikolai, taking his eyes off the window to see them briefly. "I pulled some strings for you two. Contacted the U.S. Army, reminded them about my part in the old cargoship operation..."

"What are you getting at, Nikolai?" asked Soap, sitting back down.

"I'm getting at how you and Captain Price aren't on the Most Wanted list any longer!"

"What did you say?" Price inquired, caught completely off guard.

"They listened to what I had to say about Shepherd," Nikolai answered. "Said if there was anyone they could believe, it would be me, and they would not have believed you two. You know, my friends - they do not even _know_ about that terrorist threat! Clueless and dumb."

"My God, I fucking love you, Nikolai!" Soap exclaimed in an upbeat, joyous tone as he clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder. "Wow, you'd think after everything you've done for us, we'd be welcoming you as a part of this task force. I already consider you a part of it, man."

"Absolutely no need for any of that, Captain Soap," Nikolai said as he turned the helicopter slightly in an easterly direction. "Friends are friends."

"Friends are friends," Ghost agreed. For a moment, he remained quiet as he sat in deep thought while scratching his chin, then laying a hand on the bandages wrapped around his collarbone, a grim reminder of what had resulted from this war and what he and Roach had gone through together. "I never got to say this back in Moscow, but...I'm sorry I didn't tell you, guys."

"No need to be feelin' sorry for yourself or anyone else, you hear me?" Price said, pointing at Ghost with his index finger, like he was laying down a rule of paramount importance to a mischievous child. "What's done is done, and there isn't anything we can do to change it. Task Force 141 is like a family, and we're all just glad you're back." He rotated his head towards Roach, who sat staring out the side of the helicopter, not bothering to get into the conversation that he never felt he could truly be a part of. "Isn't that right, Roach?" Price added unexpectedly.

Roach's head jerked towards the interior of the helicopter at the sound of his codename. "Yeah...yeah, we _are_ all just like a family," he agreed with the goofiest smile he could conjure up. He then turned to stare out the side of the helicopter again, watching as the Mediterranean Sea shrank into a formless shape of foil pounded into the earth. He was beginning to come up with his fantasies again about worst-case scenarios, like what if someone found the Sarin in a scuba expedition of the Mediterranean...he mentally smacked himself upside the brain for even thinking of that.

"So what's next for the one-four-one?" Nikolai asked. "Just out of my curiosity, you understand."

No one in the team answered. They _were_ a team, and what they would be doing next would have to be a decision from them as a whole, not just one of them. Finally Ghost came up with a suggestion: "Take a week off, maybe? Two weeks in a row of this stuff can make you go insane, not to mention bloody near-death experiences outta 'ell." He winked at Roach.

"That sounds like a good idea," Nikolai told Ghost. "What say the rest of you, then, my friends?"

Soap, Price, and Roach kept their eyes on Ghost's face, viewing the visage that was so mysterious yet at the same time so familiar to them. "I'm gonna say 'anything for Ghost-slash-Gaz,'" began Roach, "just so I can…you know, take a break for a while."

"A one week vacation sounds alright with me," Soap said to them both before turning to regard Price. "What about you, Captain?"

"Ah, bollocks, do whatever you want, men," he said gruffly, staring out the side of the helicopter at the perilous world inhabited by murderers, war criminals, and terrorists alike. To Price, this was what the world was and what it always would be, and Task Force 141 was just a part of the bigger defense needed to keep those dangerous people at bay. But by adding the past two weeks and five years together, he concluded that he would be perfectly fine accepting a small break, just as a reward for what he and the rest of the task force had gone through. He admitted to himself that it would be a welcome luxury to sleep in a better bed for a change, rather than that shitty cot he used for the past half-decade.

"That's an order," Price added jokingly.

Task Force 141 headed off in Nikolai's helicopter to what seemed to be a totally uncertain and frightening future, but whether in the face of biological warfare or Russian massacres, they were to be triumphant in everything they would take on together from that point on.

After all – they _were_ a team.


End file.
